So now that the first semester is in the books, I’ll briefly rehash some of the family-related drama that occurred over the past few months.
In mid-September I received the following letter from my incarcerated sister. Shortly after she wrote it, she was transferred to Madison Women’s Prison in southeast Indiana, just miles from the Kentucky border.
I never responded to her letter. I never visited her. My decision not to write her was not a refusal to do so, but a time issue. I was bogged down in school studies, and if I were to writer her, I wanted the letter to be a dedicated and emotional effort, not a quickly scribbled note of clichés and well wishes. In reflection, I feel incredibly bad about not responding, and I feel even worse as I post the above images. Posting them is the first time I’ve viewed her words since I received them in September.
Several weeks later, just three days prior to Thanksgiving, I received a phone call from mother – a phone call of which I wasn’t prepared. “Your sister is back in town, and I wanted to let you know that she’ll be here for Thanksgiving, and if you don’t feel like coming, I’ll understand, but I’d really like to have you here, son.” My response was shock: I hadn’t anticipated seeing her so soon; I’d been led to believe that she wouldn’t be released until sometime early 2011. Prior to the phone call, I was looking forward to a Thanksgiving afternoon without the drama and heartache that usually accompanied sister’s visits. Mother could hear the apprehensiveness in my voice. Her words began to quiver and shake. She started crying. “I’d really like you and ___ to be here because… I don’t know how much time I have.” I can’t express how those last eight words struck me. I thought mother’s health had finally stabilized, but maybe not.
____ and I made it for Thanksgiving and it was, refreshingly, uneventful. Sister and I didn’t talk much, but we exchanged hugs and shared a view laughs. The woman I saw actually resembled the sister I recall from so long ago. She could engage in conversation. Her memory was sharp. It was miraculous. Mother, on the other hand, looked unwell. She told me she’s in constant, severe pain, and although recent liver function tests have “normalized,” she’s still sick. I sometimes wonder how much time she has left, especially when she routinely hints at death’s closeness. I don’t know. Perhaps she’s struggling to come to terms with her mortality. I don’t know. I wish more was known. For example, does she have cirrhosis? No liver biopsy has ever been performed, yet apparently one doctor told her she did have it when no diagnosis can be made without it. I know better care can be sought, and I’ve encouraged her to seek it, but, in my opinion, the reason she hasn’t explored options in Indianapolis is because the care she’s received in hometown has been “good enough.” I don’t know. My theory is that she may have heart failure because the symptoms that aren’t consistent with liver disease
are suggestive of HF. I’ve recommended she follow it up, but she’s so frustrated with everything that it’s not a high priority. It’s frustrating for her and me. And sad. Things were (once again) anxious last week when some abnormal spots were discovered during a routine mammogram. Thankfully the biopsy was negative.
About one week prior to the mammogram scare, my mother was broken again when she discovered that sister has hepatitis C, and there’s a good chance her four-year-old son has it too. Hep C eventually leads to severe liver impairment and increases one’s odds of getting liver cancer. It’s impossible to know when and how sister became infected, but we do know prior to her prison sentence she was using needles, which is a major risk factor for hep C because it is a blood-borne pathogen. Of course, mother must take proper precautions to avoid any potential exposure because a diagnosis would represent a swift death due to her already impaired liver (there is no vaccine for hep C). If her son does indeed have it, I don't even want to think of the health challenges he'll face.
I remember when mother called to inform me of sister’s infection. Struggling to come to terms with everything, she cried, “Time keeps getting shorter.” I’ll remember those words for the rest of my life because it was the first, frank, vocal acknowledgement of her own mortality.
I have come to acknowledge that for me, childhood was cruel in its deception. When I think about how as a child I perceived my family and life in general, I get lost. I know who the child was – who
I was – but my mother, father and sister, their reflections have become distorted. Age thirteen is the water mark: parents divorced. I’m aware that I’ve mentioned their separation numerous times throughout this blog, and I’m also aware that some may perceive my recollection of that event as a crutch, or an excuse to employ in protecting myself, or excusing myself from whatever. And maybe that interpretation is at least somewhat true, but it’s undeniable that their divorce was the first crack in the glass façade of my reality – a reality that no one could protect me from, a reality of which no one could cushion the blow.
It’s not all doom and gloom, however. The decision to return to school and my recent nursing-program accomplishments (final grades for the semester: A’s and B’s) have been immensely positive and motivating for me. It’s strange: in some ways I feel as though my progression, my evolution is separating me from mother, father, and sister. Different planes of existence all pulling in opposite directions. I’m pushing forward. I’m attempting to build something. Something that, at this point, I cannot even fully comprehend.
Regardless of the light and darkness that occupies much of my life today, one thing is certain: I never thought things would be like this.
xx
just for the American political process and the collusion that poisons both parties, but for the general direction and attitude of the country itself. Fact: we've spent over trillion dollars in military and military-related spending since 9/11 and have murdered literally hundreds of thousands of innocent Iraqi and Afghan civilians. We invaded Afghanistan to destroy al-Queada and bring bin Laden to justice. Well guess what, the WMD justification for invading Iraq was a total hoax, Afghanistan is Vietnam, Pt. II, and bin Laden had been living in Pakistan for at least the last six years. (And I won't even mention the illegal war launched against Libya.) US officials have stated that the "war on terror" doesn't end with bin Laden's death; in fact, it's quite the opposite -- we must remain "
Twenty-ten has been a great year for indie music. Over the next few posts I’ll be sharing some of my favorites. I’ll start with an unknown – well, unknown to me – band from Manchester, England.
